What If My Brother Is Too Perfect?
chapter 10
Amelia's legs wrapped around Ethan's waist like a vine clinging to its tree, holding on as if he were the only thing keeping her from drowning in the overwhelming pleasure. "Ethan... harder... please..."
"My baby, my sweet girl." Ethan's words came out broken, his thrusts losing rhythm as he crushed her against his chest.
The uniform and thigh straps rubbed her skin raw, but she couldn't bring herself to care—not when Ethan wore this version of himself, so different from the brother who joked with her at home. He lifted her, the change in angle driving deeper, and she bit her lip to stifle a cry. He wouldn't have it, tongue sliding between her teeth.
For a year they'd tangled together in their thin-walled old house, learning silence. She kept forgetting—they were in his private penthouse now, no one to hear, no need to hide.
Ethan pinned her against the cabinet, pulling out his captain's hat and settling it on her head. Power, wealth, authority—all reduced to lovers' games between them. Something flickered in his eyes as he watched her wear it.
"Kiss me."
She blinked at the almost innocent request, confused until he repeated it. She pressed her lips to his cheek. He laughed softly against her neck, and her question died before it could form.
Later, Ethan moved around the kitchen shirtless, only shorts hanging low on his hips. Amelia sprawled on the couch beneath his oversized jacket, unpacking their shopping haul.
She found the art set—an impulse buy, useless since she didn't paint. But an idea sparked.
"Ethan! Ethan!"
"What? I'm cooking."
"Come here."
"After dinner."
"No!" She kicked at innocent couch cushions, the jacket riding up pale thighs. "Now!"
"Coming, little troublemaker." He appeared, spatula in hand, long-suffering expression firmly in place. "What now?"
Grinning, she yanked him closer and went to work with the brush on his stomach.
"Planning something?"
"Done." She patted his hip. "Back to work. Don't wash it off."
He looked down: "Property of Amelia" written across his abs, an arrow pointing south, a tiny heart inked beside it.
Her smugness wavered when he caught her foot, fingers tracing her arch. She tried to pull away, pointing accusingly: "You're supposed to be cooking!"
He held fast, lifting her leg until the jacket slipped, revealing what still bloomed pink and tender beneath.
"I'm hungry," she whimpered, uselessly trying to close her thighs.
Ethan's knee found her center, pressure sliding against her as he watched her fall apart. She gasped, clutching his leg. He withdrew, studying the wet mark left behind with a knowing smile before returning to the kitchen.
She couldn't stay away. Wrapping arms around him from behind, her hand slipped past his waistband.
He hissed, spine curving. "Darling, I'm making dinner."
"You started this." She bit his shoulder, tugged his shorts down. "It says 'Property of Amelia.' That means I do what I want with what's mine."
The kitchen gleamed around them, sterile and hot, their naked bodies pressed together—absurd, obscene, perfect.
"Aren't you hungry?"
"For dinner? Yes. Chef Ethan can multitask." She ground against him even as she demanded food.
His evol flared, blue-orange energy curling around her body, lifting her, positioning her exactly where he wanted. "You're impossible."
"Cheater," she gasped as he pressed her into the counter, filling her while one hand kept stirring the pan.
Finally he stopped, setting aside finished dishes, cleaning his hands with deliberate slowness before gathering her up, still joined, still moving.
"Ethan..." She reached for his mouth, and he swallowed her completely.
He drove into her with brutal precision, evol and strong arms lifting, dropping, each descent hitting somewhere new, somewhere devastating. She broke apart beneath him, nails raking his skin.
On the final drop, something gave way. She felt it. He felt it. Her body seized, strange sounds escaping as she clung to him.
He carried her to the couch, mouth finding her breasts.
"Stop..." The word barely existed.
"Why would I? This is what you wanted." A small movement, her broken whimper his reward. "Don't like it? The couch is soaked, sweetheart. You're loving this."
She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, muscles misfiring everywhere.
He moved in shallow strokes, the ridge of him catching, dragging, and she couldn't stop making those sounds—
"Breathe, darling." He covered her mouth with his, nose against hers, breathing for her until she came back.
"You've never... done that before. It was terrifying..."
"I have, sweet girl. You just don't remember." He kissed her hair, hand gentle on her spine. "You're perfect like this."
"You're not making sense."
He laughed quietly, fingers trailing down. "So, sweetheart... may I continue?"
Contents
What If My Brother Is Too Perfect（chapter 1）
What If My Brother Is Too Perfect（chapter 2）
What If My Brother Is Too Perfect（chapter 3）
What If My Brother Is Too Perfect（chapter 4）
What If My Brother Is Too Perfect（chapter 5）
What If My Brother Is Too Perfect（chapter 6）
What If My Brother Is Too Perfect（chapter7）
What If My Brother Is Too Perfect（chapter 8）
What If My Brother Is Too Perfect（chapter 9）
